Since growing up I heard the same story.
It’s written in books. Taught at school. Internalized in life.
Repeated by friends. By family. By me.
A glimpse. A thought.
This story is not the truth.
If it’s not. What is?
A ruptured moment. Fractured fragments.
Re-arranged by my imagination.
*photo by Daniel Alvarez Sanchez Diaz on Unsplash
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